


The Prettiest Things (Sometimes Are the Dangerous Things)

by ShadowsLament



Series: Slipping Away [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowsLament/pseuds/ShadowsLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Stiles can account for and Blue is not one of them.</p><p>A series of ficlets and drabbles that take place after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/492760/chapters/861232">When There's Blood On Your Tongue (And You're Ready For War)</a> and focus on Stiles' developing relationship with my OC Blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Swear I've Tried Everything (Think I'd Come Around)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synchronized_strangers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronized_strangers/gifts).



“Red.” Stiles glanced up from his notebook, his pen paused mid-tap, the chewed barrel hovering over a scrawl indecipherable to even his eyes, and blinked Blue into focus. “We have to stop meeting like this.” Blue tugged the chair opposite Stiles out from the small table and spun it. He straddled the seat, tucking his bent knees into the deep crevice between Stiles’ splayed legs. “Someone might think it’s on purpose.”

“If by someone you mean me.” Stiles reached for his lukewarm coffee. “And Derek. And, dude, get your own,” he said as Blue lifted the large ceramic mug to his lips and drew his tongue up to the rim, erasing the trail of liquid that had sloshed over and raced down the side when he slipped it out of Stiles’ hand. “There are napkins,” Stiles complained. “Right here.”

“So there are.” Blue grinned and set the mug down, turning toward the bar and the honey blonde hovering at the edge near their table, absently wiping a cloth over the polished wood. “You’ve got cheesecake in that case?”

The girl startled, dropping the cloth. “Yes?” She disappeared behind the bar, popping up a second later. “With caramel sauce,” she added. “I could get you a slice.”

Blue’s artless smile, offered to the dark eyes roaming over his face while small hands wrung permanent creases into the cloth, twisted Stiles’ stomach into a knot. “I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

“Manners,” Stiles observed. He connected the Rorschach ink splotches he had inadvertently tapped into the lined page, watching Blue watch the girl move nimbly behind the bar, taking down a plate and opening the cooler case. Something like pain drew Blue’s mouth tight, etching a faint curve into his cheek. “So that’s the trick?” Stiles blurted out. “Tie an apron on and I might actually, for once, get a please out of you?”

“What are you saying, Red?” Blue’s eyes darkened, the lines of his face shifting away from a longing for something lost to a real and present desire that burned beneath his skin. “That you’re looking for something domestic with me?” He crossed his arms on the table and leaned in, so close Stiles was momentarily distracted by the tiny freckle on the bridge of his nose. “Or that you want me to beg? For you,” Blue murmured, “in nothing but that apron, I would. I’d get on my knees and—”

Stiles fumbled with his pen, waving it off as a lost cause as it rolled to the edge of the table and fell to the floor. “And here comes your actual dessert. Along with the nice girl who already thinks you’re the hottest thing since sliced bread. Toasted.” Stiles moved his notebook to make room for the plate. “Let’s not give ourselves a reason to regret not having smelling salts stashed in our pockets, okay?”

Blue shook his head. “Where do you come up with—”

“If I can get you coffee or…something.” The girl set the plate and a fork down, her cheeks flushed pink under a smattering of freckles. “Just let me know.”

“I will. Thank you.” Blue’s gaze dipped down to the name tag pinned to her oversized, striped sweater. “Samantha.” He dug into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled a folded twenty from behind his license. Holding it out to her, he nodded at Stiles. “Anything else he wants you can take from what’s left.”

“We’re not—This isn’t a date,” Stiles called after her, attracting the attention of an elderly couple approaching the bar. “He’s not—Never mind.” He pointed at his mug. “Try the gingerbread coffee. Seriously. It has no business being this delicious.” Stiles thumped his elbow on the table and cupped his hand around his forehead, shading his eyes. “I hope your freaking cheesecake is worth it, Blue.”

“It will be.” Blue’s voice, pitched low and quiet, urged Stiles head up. “There’s all this caramel,” he said, dragging the pad of his finger through the thick sauce pooled on the plate. He lifted his hand for Stiles’ inspection, letting the caramel ooze down to his knuckle before halting its descent with his tongue, licking his way back up and sucking the tip into his mouth. Blue pursed his lips around his finger and slowly withdrew it, leaving his skin slick with moisture that glinted in the sunlight slanting through the window. “You’ve no idea what you’re missing, Red.”

Stiles smothered a helpless, choked sound and shifted in his seat. “Yeah, well, I think it’s illegal in at least forty states. Also, Samantha was nice enough to bring you a fork. You could use it—”

“That’s a fair point,” Blue agreed, using the side of the utensil to cut out a slice he caged with his teeth, scraping the cheesecake off as he pulled the fork back, twisting it to drag the tines down his tongue. “Was that better?”

“You know what would be better?” Stiles asked, glaring at what remained of the cheesecake. “If you just stabbed me with the fork and got it over with.” He picked up his mug and muttered into his coffee, “Who taught you how to eat anyway? A porn star?”

“Really, Red?” Blue asked, feigning hurt. “Give me some credit. My technique runs deeper than that.” He wrapped his mouth around another bite, the muscles in his throat shifting as he swallowed. “Would you like a demonstration? This table’s small, but I could—”

Stiles groaned and shoved the plate closer to Blue. “Finish your cheesecake.”

He refused to watch Blue lave his fork, fiddling with a packet of sugar to distract from the sound of Blue sucking his thumb into his mouth, removing every sticky trace of caramel from his skin. Stiles glanced to the side, away from the temptation of Blue’s grin, his heart jerking as he sighted Scott and Isaac pushing through the door. “Blue…”

“Looks like that demonstration will have to wait.” Blue rose from his seat, turning it around as Scott and Isaac bypassed the bar, heading in their direction. He swept a fingertip along the line of Stiles’ jaw. “You know where to find me.”

Stiles watched Blue step between his friends and closed his eyes. “Wha—What just happened?”

“Going by what we saw through the window?” Isaac asked. “I’d say orgasm by cheesecake.”

“Come by caramel?” Scott suggested, and shook his head. “Isaac’s was better.”

“Why does he have to be so…so…” Stiles cast about for the right word, throwing his hand up in frustration. “I’m screwed and I haven’t even touched either of their—”

“Dude.” Scott’s eyes went wide. “No details.”

“But—”

“No,” Scott and Isaac chorused.

“Fine,” Stiles said, struggling up from his slouch. “But if either one of you brings cheesecake to the next pack meeting…”


	2. Maybe You Were Too Much (To Be With or Without)

You can’t be here,” Stiles hissed. He swatted the tattooed forearm that came up on his left side with the dog-eared paperback he’d been thumbing through, conscious of the warmth at his back, undiminished by several layers of cloth, and a scent strangely reminiscent of the gingersnap cookies he ate every day when he was a kid, crumbling a few in his hand, tongue poking out to lift the broken pieces off his palm. “Seriously, Blue. You have to leave.” 

“I just got here.” Blue’s right arm rose, both hands resting on the splintered ledge of the bookshelf in front of Stiles, his body a long, lean bracket trapping Stiles against a wall of broken spines and sun-stained paper. He dropped his chin to Stiles’ shoulder, lips at Stiles’ ear. “And haven’t properly checked out the one thing I want yet.”

“Maybe I could help you find it,” Stiles offered, unconsciously angling his head farther to the side. “I’ve been pretty much living in the library since-”

“There’s no need.” Blue’s stubbled cheek rasped against Stiles’ neck. “I found him on my own.”

“You found--Stop that,” Stiles said, leaving it up to Blue to decide which he meant: the words, not entirely unwelcome, or the press of his mouth against Stiles’ nape, the shape of his grin a brand Stiles’ skin shouldn’t bear. “What is it about me that says invade my personal space, anyway?” Stiles’ gaze drifted down Blue’s arm, flying over the inky black treetops that stretched from elbow to wrist, landing on a heavy, elaborately engraved signet ring on Blue’s left middle finger. “Hey.” Tapping the ring, he asked, “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” Blue replied. “This freckle, on the other hand. Might be my favorite of the ones I’ve seen so far.”

“Funny. Derek likes it too.” Stiles shifted, turning his head to catch Blue’s eyes. “You remember Derek? My...”

Blue stepped in closer still and Stiles moved on instinct, crowding into the shelves, his breath stirring a settlement of dust on a pile of strictly stacked books. “Your what, Red?” 

“I don’t...We haven’t...” Stiles’ fingers tightened reflexively on the shelf he gripped. “But that doesn’t mean...” He canted his hips forward, away from the hard line of Blue’s zipper snug against his ass, and was dragged back, held in place by unyielding hands on his hips, soothed by thumbs gently and repetitively stroking over bone. Stiles sighed, reminding them both, “You know the deal.”

“I want a new deal.” 

“And I want you to be able to stick around,” Stiles argued. “So.” Releasing the shelf, he covered Blue’s hands and determinedly shoved, breaking his hold. “Hands and...other parts...to yourself. Alright?” Stiles waited for Blue’s raspy baritone to chime in with a denial and frowned at the shuffle of feet pacing the stacks on either side, the muted laughter he heard in its stead. “Blue?”

Stiles eased around, his eyes skittering from Derek’s hand wrapped around Blue’s neck, claws extended and shallowly piercing the skin above the collar of his shirt, to Blue’s unrepentant smirk. His tongue darted out, licking dry lips he stretched into a crooked smile, hoping to pacify the anger twisting Derek’s into a silent snarl. 

“Hey! You’re here,” Stiles said, and took a fortifying breath. “Which is good, great, because I haven’t seen you in, what’s it been, like, forty minutes, and that’s too long, don’t you think? Oh, and maybe don’t maim my friend in the library?” He stepped forward to peel Derek’s fingers away from Blue’s neck, the pressure wrenching his lungs abating when Derek let him. “Good. This is good. Because I’m pretty sure blood and guts or whatever would be a bitch to get out of paper.” He shoved Blue’s shoulder and insinuated himself into the narrow gap between the two men. “Stop glaring.” He brought his foot down on Blue’s boot, scoring another scuff into the matte leather. “Both of you.”

“You’ve got eyes in the back of your head now, Red? That could come in handy,” Blue mused, lightly raking his nails against the grain of the short strands shading the curve of Stiles’ head. “I’ll have to buy a mirror so you can--”

Derek grabbed Blue’s wrist. “Don’t.” He ground his teeth and shifted his focus to Stiles. “What’s he doing here?”

“It’s a _public_ library, Derek,” Stiles answered. “With books and movies and other people.” Jerking his chin in the direction of the couple at the end of the aisle, he added, “Like the ones staring at us right now.”

“Let them.” Blue tucked a kiss into the recess behind Stiles’ ear, playfully biting the lobe before he pulled back and met Derek’s drenched-red stare. “I don’t mind an audience now and again.”

Stiles groaned. “You’re not helping.” 

Blue shrugged and said, “I’m not a helpful kind of guy.” 

“No,” Derek agreed. “You’re not.” He wound an arm around Stiles, the tension pulling his shoulders into a rigid line seeping away when Stiles moved into him without hesitating. “So what’s your game?” he asked. “I’ve been trying to figure out what you have to gain--”

“Derek, he’s not--” 

Blue surged forward, sealing his chest to Stiles’ back, and bit out, “If you think that little of him--”

“That’s not it,” Stiles asserted. “Guys--”

“It’s not him,” Derek snapped. “It’s you--”

Stiles closed his eyes and pulled a deep breath in through his nose, the now achingly familiar scents of woodsmoke and ginger twining together, wrapping around his tongue. Filling his head until his sense of language was lost, the ability to recognize individual words gone, leaving him with nothing but the tenor of their voices blending in a discordant harmony Stiles loved in spite of himself. His pulse picked up the rhythm, thrumming harder and faster as his body heat rose, amplified at every point of contact with Derek and Blue. He was burning fever-hot, his body betraying him, and Derek would know it, would be able to smell the arousal uncoiling low in his stomach, feel his-- 

An encouraging hum vibrated through Stiles’ chest as he tipped his head back to rest on Blue’s shoulder, granting Derek the access he sought to nuzzle into Stiles’ throat, soft licks easing the graze of blunt teeth over his Adam’s apple. Pressing his mouth to Stiles’ temple, Blue slid both arms around his waist and held tight; an anchor Stiles was distantly grateful for as Derek continued his exploration, jerking Stiles’ shirt down to nip and suck across the raised ridge of Stiles’ collarbone. The descending drag of Blue’s lips to his jaw, the feather-light touch of his breath brushing Stiles’ parted mouth, reshaped the hum lingering on Stiles’ tongue into a soft moan. “Don’t st--”

A strident wolf-whistle pierced the air, snapping Stiles’ eyes open.

“Ignore it,” Blue murmured.

Stiles leaned to Derek’s right, his gaze tracking down the stacks to a white twenty-one just visible beneath the slouch of a worn backpack carried over one shoulder. He glanced up at Derek, his mouth open. “You know what this means? The whole school’s gonna know in, like, five minutes. That Stiles Stilinski was the cold cuts in a hot manwhich. I’m the town slut,” he realized aloud, choosing to ignore Derek’s eye roll. “I don’t even know how to sew. Who’s going to stitch the A on all my shirts, huh?” He turned to look at Blue. “Does it even count as adultery when my...whatever Derek is...is part of it?”

“Stiles--”

“No,” Blue said, cutting Derek off. “Besides, Dimmesdale’s got nothing on me. I’m not in the habit of feeling guilt. Or regret,” he added. “But don’t worry, Red. Anyone gives you trouble, Derek and I’ll take care of it.”

“Wow, that’s just--You can’t be catching these stupid American lit references, dude. Because, one, I’m not even sure why--But, no, I do know. You guys are like a drug, and I can in no way be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth when under your influence. But, yeah, you can’t catch them and _lob them back at me_. All of this,” Stiles said, and gestured to Blue’s face, towing his hand down to indicated the long column of Blue’s body, “is bad enough. Smart and hot is kind of my kryptonite. See Lydia and this guy.” Stiles jabbed his index finger into Derek’s chest. “Also? I can take care of myself. Just so we’re clear because maybe you forgot I know what your blood feels like on my knuckles. Still, if you two are willing to work together in defense of my honor, I’ve got another suggestion--”

Derek transferred his narrow-eyed glare from Blue to Stiles. “No.”

Stiles huffed. “You don’t even know--”

“‘Course we do,” Blue said. “I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed, but--”

“I don’t share,” Derek finished for him. “It’s bad enough he’s sticking around--”

“We’re not arguing about this again,” Stiles said, slipping out from where he still stood between them. “You know...My birthday’s coming up.” He swooped down to pick up the paperback he’d dropped when Derek showed up and moved down the aisle, turning to grin at the two men staring after him. “Make sure the bows are red."


	3. You Can Always Run (But You Can't Always Get Away)

“Blue?” Stiles poked the apartment door with the tip of his index finger and peered around it into the room, one foot over the threshold. “Even badasses like you shouldn’t just leave their doors wide—Holy shit.”

“I don’t know about that.” Blue’s tongue swept out and over his split lower lip, staunching the blood seeping from the tear. “I could get used to you strollin’ in like you own the place,” he said, trying for a grin and losing it to a wince that creased skin stained dark with bruising at the corner of each eye. He shifted in the seat he was bound to, pulling his torn shirt tight across his shoulders. “You going to stand there and stare at me, Red, or…”

“Yeah.” Stiles shook his head. “I mean, no. I mean…” He knocked the door back and rushed in, stumbling over a ripple in the woven rug spread over the nicked wooden planks lining the floor. Righting himself, Stiles cut his gaze to the scrapes paving raw paths into the stubble on Blue’s jaw, skidding lower to the ring of mottled color around his throat. “Who—Did Derek—”

“I took something from my old pack.” Blue attempted a shrug. “They tried to get it back.” He tilted his head, watching Stiles hastily move around the chair. Steady hands skimmed his forearms, falling to the rope wound around his wrists. “I’ve dreamt of those long fingers of yours, Red,” Blue said, his voice hushed and hoarse. “I always figured they’d be the ones to make the knots, not undo them.”

“Again with the flirting at inappropriate times.” Stiles’ nails scrabbled over the intricate knot. “Jesus, Blue, your skin’s rubbed—”

“Without the right partner, there’s not much to do in this position. And…” The stiff, braided hemp went slack. Blue twisted his wrist, folding his fingers over Stiles’ on the loosened knot. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” Stiles admitted. He tugged gently and watched the rope slip, spiraling in lazy turns to the floor. “I probably shouldn’t. Be here. But—”

“Stiles.”

Stiles jerked back. “St-Stiles?” He stood, ignoring the way his legs quavered and his heart tripped, and rounded the chair. “Since when—”

“ _Don’t_.” Blue slowly pushed to his feet, his arm wrapped around his torso, fingers splayed over his ribs. “Don’t make excuses. You fucking feel it,” he rasped. “The same as I do. So spare me your piss poor rationalizations, and—” Blue swayed, his face blanching white.

Stiles surged forward and shoved his shoulder under Blue’s arm, careful to grip his wrist above the abrasions. “Can you make it to the Jeep?” Stiles asked, winding his arm around Blue’s back. “Scott’s mom is working—”

“No,” Blue hissed through gritted teeth. “No hospital. Just…help me to the tub and go.”

“Right.” Stiles tightened his hold. “So not happening.” Listing to the left, he took as much of Blue’s weight as he could and shuffled toward the clawfoot tub that ran parallel to a narrow brick fireplace, Blue’s labored breathing and soft grunts a soundtrack Stiles never wanted to hear again. “Hold onto the side,” Stiles suggested, easing out from under Blue’s arm. “How hot can you take the water?”

“If it doesn’t burn,” Blue said, dropping his gaze to Stiles’ mouth, “it’s not hot enough.”

“Did you graduate with a Master’s degree in innuendo?” Running his hand under the water streaming from the spout, Stiles judged its warmth by the heat flushing his face. “Couple more seconds and it should be suitably scalding. Think you can stand? We need to get your clothes off.”

Blue straightened with effort and turned to Stiles, his eyebrow arched. “We?”

“Yeah.” Steam saturated the air Stiles pulled in through his mouth, searching for a hint of ginger beneath the wet-penny scent of dried blood. Stepping closer, he tangled his thumbs in the hem of Blue’s henley and glanced up, breathing into the scant space between them. “Lift your arms.”

Hunger crept into Blue’s eyes, crowding around the pupils as they expanded, eclipsing the midnight sky of his irises. Staring into the dark, Stiles hesitated, waiting for fear to stir and follow. When it didn’t, he spanned Blue’s waist with his hands and pushed the shirt up, his fingers trailing along skin that rose in a field of goosebumps to meet his touch, over muscles that shifted and stretched. His knuckles brushed Blue’s nipples, grazing metal. “Of course you do.” Stiles suppressed the shiver Blue’s rich laugh provoked and concentrated on sliding the material crumpled in his hands over Blue’s biceps, gently pulling it free of his bent head. “Just let me…” He tossed the shirt aside and stooped to push the stopper down, taking a moment to watch the water lap against the enameled side of the deep basin. He slicked his tongue across painfully dry lips and said, “The pants have to go too.”

“So take them off,” Blue murmured.

Stiles nodded and closed his eyes, reached out blind, tracing the ridge of Blue’s waistband before sinking his fingers behind the cotton, his thumb rubbing restless circles into the button.

“Red. Look at me,” Blue whispered. “That’s right. Watch my face, see what it does to me. You slipping that button free.”

“Shut up,” Stiles whispered back. “I can’t…If you’re going to say things like that, I don’t think I can…”

“So talk to me,” Blue said quietly. “Don’t think about—”

“It’s the only thing I can think about.” Stiles swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing roughly in his throat. “But, yeah. Okay. Talking might help. Me talking. Rambling. Whatever.” He pushed with his thumb, shoving the button through the slit before the second and third thoughts he was having pushed him back, away from the tremulous smile curling Blue’s lips. “I don’t know what you took.” He gripped the small silver tab, his gaze flicking up to catch every shade of Blue’s expression as he pulled the zipper down, conscious and careful of the hot, hard line of Blue’s cock, bare beneath the pants he wore. “And you—” Stiles’ stomach tightened, responding to the rumbling purr building in Blue’s chest. “You don’t have to tell me.” Parting the material, he fanned his hands out to rest on the sharp edge of Blue’s hipbones. “But this…it kills me. What they did.” He pushed the pants down Blue’s thighs, his breath ghosting over Blue’s erection as he sank down on his haunches. Blue gripped his shoulders, strong fingers digging in, and stepped out of the pants. “You should know.” Stiles looked up. “It’s not going to happen again.”

Blue groaned and cupped Stiles’ chin, his thumb following the curve of Stiles’ bottom lip, pressing against the seam. “Where’d my fumbling virgin go?”

Stiles rose unsteadily to his feet and caught Blue’s hand, turning it over, using the ragged skin stretched over Blue’s knuckles as a distraction. “Is that why you—”

“I’d be a fool,” Blue cut in. “And that’s a skin I shed a long time ago, Red.” He haltingly leaned around Stiles, closing the tap “You gonna join me?”

Hung up on the puzzle piece Blue just handed over, Stiles frowned. “What?”

“I could return the favor.” Blue hooked a finger through Stiles’ belt loop and yanked. “Help you get rid of these clothes.”

“Oh.” Stiles itched to touch the wide expanse of Blue’s chest, to trace the tattoo drawn in an inverted arch spanning Blue’s collarbones with his tongue, but said, “No, not—But you, ah…Get in. I’ve got your back covered.”

Blue took Stiles’ hand and used the firm grasp as a brace, stepping into the tub, blue eyes dark and solemn and holding Stiles’ wide-eyed gaze. “I’d bet my life on it, Red.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a thank you drabble for Robyn (synchronized_strangers)

“Dude, I can’t help it.” Stiles cringed. The petulant curl at the end of the words had the sharp edge of a hook that sank into his ears; there was nothing to do but admit that it had been a whine. Desperate, and after weeks of looking with hands left to fidget at his sides, painfully needy. “Fine,” he said, and rolled his eyes as Scott’s grin spread. “But look at him, okay?” He stabbed a finger at Blue, resting on his haunches several feet away, a sponge compressed in his hand and trails of water running like rain through the forest tattooed on his forearm. Blue smoothed the sponge over the front tire of a Bentley Continental GT, rounding the circular line repeatedly before lingering to rub out flecks of mud set stubbornly at the edge of the tread. “He’s, like, a fucking hypnotist or something.”

“Who is?” Isaac asked. He followed where Scott’s upthrusted chin led, his gaze settling on Blue. “Oh.” He reached around Scott and cuffed Stiles’ shoulder. “You keep eye-fucking Con like that, Derek’s gonna—”

“Hey. Give me some credit,” Stiles said. “I can hide it—”

“No.” Scott’s grin didn’t falter. “You really can’t.”

“Yeah, well, Derek’s not here, and—” Stiles heard a familiar purr, rough and soft as it slowed and stopped, and closed his eyes. “Right now, in my head, I’m imagining the universe and me facing off in a duel. I didn’t draw first blood and you guys officially suck as my seconds.”

“You didn’t think he’d show up?” Isaac asked. “His boyfriend and half his pack are on the team.”

“Does anything about Derek Hale say _I think I’ll just pop over to the high school lacrosse car wash fundraiser and support the cause_?” A lance of panic punctured Stiles’ stomach as Blue rose and turned, tugging his shirt up to swipe at the spray of water on his throat. Sweat sheened Blue’s stomach, defining the rock hard ridges of his abdomen. “Oh, so that’s how—When I’m dead,” Stiles rasped, “know that the universe had to cheat to win.”

“Stiles, you might want to—” Scott’s eyes widened and Stiles shifted; both watched as Blue sauntered across the parking lot, thumbs tucked into the pockets of jeans darkened by water and plastered to his thighs. “Maybe Con should see the guidance counselor?” Scott asked. “Death wishes can’t be healthy.”

Blue trailed featherlight fingertips up the Camaro’s hood as Derek shoved his door open and climbed out, glaring at Blue’s hand where it came to rest on the side of the car. “You like to touch what isn’t yours,” Derek said. “Don’t you, Brannan?”

“I can hardly deny the appeal.” Blue leaned back against the car. “But then you brush up against something you’d like to keep.” He tugged out the cloth spilling from his back pocket and wrapped it around his knuckles. “And you find it’s worth fighting for.” Blue glanced over his shoulder. “Red?”

Stiles startled, tearing a thin layer of skin from where his teeth worried the inside of his lip. “Y-yeah?”

Blue stood and gripped the hem of his shirt, skimming it up the length of his torso and over his head. “I could use your hands on this,” he said, drawing the t-shirt down his chest to tuck into his waistband. “Bring the soap.” The slant of his smile was sinful, reckless. “Best make it slick before we start.”

Scott’s shoulder brushed Stiles’. “Is he talking about the car or—”

“Oh, my god, Scott,” Stiles said. “Shut up.”

Isaac smirked. “Have fun keeping them from killing each other. If you need backup,” he said, already walking away, “I’ll be over there, getting my hands on that Aston that just pulled in.”

“Okay, but you’re not going to leave me, are you—Scott? Scott!” Stiles yelled, tossing his hands up when Scott continued to follow at Isaac’s heels. Scott turned and shrugged a shoulder, his mouth twisted to contain a laugh. Stiles shot a glare at their retreating backs and blinked at the older man waiting by the side of the Aston, studying him as he fixed the cufflinks beneath a charcoal gray suit jacket. He bent, picked up the bucket of soapy water at his feet and straightened, his gaze colliding with Derek’s bare chest, inches away from Blue’s. The bucket slipped, soaking his jeans and sending a flood of water over his sneakers. “You know what? I fucking hear you, Universe,” Stiles grumbled. “But so we’re clear? I hate you too.”


	5. A Crush (Turns to Love in a Rush), PT 1

Blue dropped his hand from the sweaty tangle of his hair to the thick knit loops of the blanket twisted around his torso, unsteady fingers kneading into the soft yarn. A familiar litany had followed him from sleep into the light of consciousness, the dark of the room, coating his tongue with the tart tang of despair. For a disorienting second he was a kid again, tossing his head back to fill his mouth with Lemonheads, but the scent he recognized bore no trace of sweetness, and when he swallowed it was bitterness that slid down his throat.

Digging his elbow into the mattress, he leaned over the edge and dipped into his boot for his phone. On his back, the worn cotton stretched across his pillow absorbed the film of perspiration at his nape as he smoothed a thumb over the cool glass screen, the furious pace of his heartbeat easing off once he tapped the single contact he’d saved.

A voice thick with sleep answered, “M’listenin’.”

“Red.” Blue scrubbed a hand across his forehead and hesitated, tethering himself to the anchor of Stiles’ deep and even breathing. “I could use your company right about now.”

Stiles’ response came without pause for thought. “Gimme ten minutes.” Blue heard the rustle of sheets and imagined Stiles sitting up, pajama pants rucked low on slim hips. Hale might be there, discontent a scythe cutting a deep furrow between his dark brows as Stiles stood to leave. Whether the thought was true didn’t matter, not when the next words out of Stiles’ mouth were, “Need me to stay on the line till I get there?”

After the reality of the dream, the lie came easily. “That I don’t.” Tracking pinprick holes in the ceiling like they were incomplete constellations, Blue gave into the need that coursed beneath his skin, making him itch for a distraction of freckles, and added, “But get here, yeah?”

“On my-- _Fuck_ ,” Stiles hissed, louder than the dull thud that preceded it. “I think I just--I’m pretty sure I just broke my toe. But that’s...that’s cool. I’ll be there. In fifteen?”

“However I can get you, Red, I want you, but in one piece would suit me best. Take twenty.” Blue disconnected the call and pitched the phone over the side of the bed, listening for its muffled landing on the woven rug. Cradling his head in clasped hands, he grit his teeth against the fine tremor that moved up his spine, skipping vertebrae like stones. “For Christ’s sake,” he bit out as breath ricocheted off his ribs. “Six fucking years it’s been.”

A year had passed before he acknowledged that sleep was no kinder to him than memory. Those three hundred and sixty something days that came before it had been a challenge to rise to, and he’d stubbornly kept his eyes shut, lying there on unfamiliar ground with his knees pinned to his chest, drenched in sweat and residual images from one of a handful of dreams that all ended the same. 

It was a matter of adapting after that and he’d taken to likening the power his past held to a tapestry; nights piled up behind him as he methodically tugged at its threads, loosing one after another until pale light saturated the sky. He wasn’t close to unraveling it, had only managed to fray the ends before a smart and defiant, beautiful boy wandered into a park, his own needle in hand.

Drumming a restless rhythm on his chest, he thought of Stiles: those tapered fingers of his, running over the text in his books, pressing the dust of dried ink into the pads; the flare of bright yellow on his thumb where the highlighter had slipped and stained his skin. It wasn’t enough to watch them move, articulating a point or untying knots around Blue’s wrists; he wanted to taste the wisdom inadvertently imprinted there, learn it as Stiles did his myths and lore. Wanted those clever fingers--

Blue’s lashes lowered like wings moved involuntarily into flight by the imperceptible scrape of a key thrust into a lock; it was too short a time in darkness to decide between relief and gratitude, and more than enough to deny both. “Door’s unlocked, Red.”

“I noticed that.” Stiles stepped out of his untied sneakers before padding closer, loose pajama pants riding lower with each step. “ _After_ I locked it. Why’d you give me a key if--”

“You can’t find your own half the time--”

“Exactly. That’s why I had spares made.” Stiles held up his hand with his palm down, a silver keyring shivering between the knuckles of one finger. The small set of mismatched keys swayed like chimes in a slight wind. “You don’t have to be a Boy Scout to be prepared.”

“No, you don’t. So tell me, Red.” Blue rose up on his elbows, tension shifting across his abdomen in precise ripples. He watched Stiles’ mouth part and eyes drop, moving from his taut stomach to the thin line of black hair that trailed down from his naval, and was tempted to turn, to urge the blanket folded over his hips down to his thighs. Instead he asked, “What else are you prepared for?”

“I, uh--” Stiles licked his lips. “Booty?”

Blue arched an eyebrow. “I could get behind that.”

“Wha--How do you do that? Five words and I’m--But, okay, no. That’s not what I meant. I’m not...I know you didn’t...This isn’t a--” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, agitation flushing his cheeks. “I’m not exactly booty call material--”

  “No,” Blue agreed, knowing what for-life looked like. “You’re something else.”

  “ _Annnd_ I’m not going to ask,” Stiles said. He shook his head to confirm it and frowned before it was done. “But who says something like that--”

“Red,” Blue said, cutting through Stiles’ nervous ramble. “C’mere.” 

Stiles held still and considered the wrinkled strip of dove gray sheet Blue had revealed, easing onto his side to make room on the bed. He toyed with the outside seam of his pants, biting his bottom lip until it burned red under his teeth.

“It’s been a night, Red.” Blue paused, waiting until Stiles’ gaze lifted to his face to continue. “I’d like to pass what’s left of it with you in my bed. Nothing more,” he said, and held up a hand. “You’ve my promise on that.”

“But,” Stiles said, pushing the unbuttoned plaid shirt he wore off his shoulders, “you don’t have mine. If I get in--”

“We’ll sleep. After a while,” Blue said. “I’ll hear your voice first. If you’ll talk?”

“If I’ll--It’s like you don’t even know me.” Stiles crossed to the bed and sat. He searched the compressed corners of Blue’s eyes for the secrets he wouldn’t reveal before reaching out to coil a thick curl of sweat-dampened hair around his finger, slipping it off when it cleared Blue’s forehead. “On a scale of one to being shot dead, how bad was it?”

Blue shrugged. “Bad enough.” He wasn’t surprised Stiles had figured out the reason for his call; it was just a matter of watching the needle at work, threading a vibrant red deeper into his tapestry. “You going to lie down with me before morning comes?”

Stiles scooted down the bed until his legs ran parallel to Blue’s. “Can I..touch you?”

“Can you--It’s like you don’t know me at all.” Blue eased an arm between Stiles and the mattress and said, “Touch me all you like, Red. And talk to me.”

Stiles nodded but kept quiet. Blue opened his mouth to prompt him when he felt it: the ghost of fingertips at his ribs; a barely there brush of skin on skin, a moment to test courage as though it were a bridge, and one that might not be safe to cross. Stiles lingered a second more and then slid his hand up, fingers splayed as they traversed Blue’s stomach. Tightening his grip, Stiles shifted closer. “So, today, right? I was--”

Blue closed his eyes to the sound of a heartbeat like a lullaby, strands of Stiles’ hair caught on his lips as he breathed him in.


	6. A Crush (Turns to Love in a Rush), PT 2

Stiles rubbed his nose up a column of hot skin, inhaling the warm, heady scent of ginger buried in the pores. He opened his eyes and blinked down at the tattoo that seemed to take form as breath from his open mouth. Leaning back, he found the midnight of Blue’s eyes above him and doubted the subdued light glancing through the window. “Time’s it?”

“Early still.” Blue drew the hand resting low on Stiles’ back up to his face. He rode his thumb around the bend of Stiles’ yawn. “You’ve somewhere to be?”

“I...” Stiles trailed off, considering the question. He could go to the library, return the book he’d dropped in the shower, and dodge the small fortune he owed in overdue fines. Or he could go to Scott’s, drag him out to the field to practice. There were plenty of places he could go, but none of his options were as appealing as Blue’s finger slipping from his chin to his clavicle, trailing featherlight down his sternum. “Right here’s good.”

“That,” Blue said, laying the word on the sleep lines across Stiles’ forehead, “it is.”

Stiles crumpled the sheet in his hand, and giving in found Blue’s hip with blunt nails, kneading the firm swell of muscle. “Are you real?” he asked, and winced. “I mean, I know you’re _real_. But are you--”

“Ask me again,” Blue said, pulling away, “when you’re willing to hear the answer.”

Frowning, Stiles propped up on his elbow. He lost the question he meant to ask in the bend of Blue’s arm above his head, strands of black hair curling over bare biceps as Blue stretched, gripping the headboard to brace himself. Blue’s back bowed and the sheet slipped, exposing the obscene angle of tempting hipbones, the shadow of dark hair cast several inches below his belly button. Licking his lips, Stiles lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “This...it’s a test. Isn’t it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck _me_.”

Blue laughed; the low, rich sound provoked a riot of goosebumps on Stiles’ arms. “You’ll mean that.” Shifting onto his side, Blue tucked an arm under his head, and through the veil of his lashes watched Stiles swallow, tracking the quick descent and rise of his Adam’s apple. “Next time you say it.”

“Maybe I do now.” Stiles hesitated. When the need remained, he dropped his head, grazing Blue’s freckled shoulder with parted lips. “Maybe I...I want you.” Blue’s quick inhale was a song in Stiles’ ear; a muted melody accompanied by the shush of cotton sliding beneath them. His forearm a welcome weight on Stiles’ hip, Blue urged Stiles closer with long fingers pressed into the notches in his spine. “Maybe I even--”

“There’ll be no maybe in this,” Blue whispered, tipping his head back on the pillow. “If you wanted it, I’d share our bed with a third, but when I’m inside you, Red, there’ll be no doubt between us.”

“You say things like that, and I--Would you leave?” Stiles pressed the heel of his palm to his chest, over his heart. The thick, irregular beat beneath his hand made him feel lightheaded. Anxious. “If I can’t give you what you want? Will you--”

Easing to the mattress’ edge, Blue stood. “Would you be here now?” He moved to the rocking chair in front of the window and bent to tug on jeans, leaving Stiles to knot the blanket and watch the play of muscle in Blue’s ass and thighs, pretending his erection wasn’t straining against his boxers. Turning back to the bed, Blue finished buttoning the fly. “Would you have slept beside me?” he asked. “Kept hold of me and woke with me? If you thought yourself unable to give what I want?”

Stiles looked at the brick walls of Blue’s small apartment, his gaze skipping over the cracked mortar to the warped and worn wooden planks lining the floor, and thought of the afternoons he’d dropped down on the peeling leather armchair shoved in the corner, next to the fireplace. The truth hummed alongside the contentment that welled in his stomach every time he stepped over the threshold into Blue’s place. He couldn’t offer it yet; not when the words felt too much like a confession. A secret held on the tongue until darkness came and claimed it. “I don’t want you to be anywhere but here. It’s fucked up, and I--You can’t leave. Okay? You can’t leave _me_.” Stiles breathed in, slow and deep, and released the air on a sigh. “Also? You should probably put on a shirt, because the only thing keeping me from molesting you is a second.”

Blue spread his arms wide and smirked. “Have at it, Red.” He let his arms fall and set both fists on the mattress, holding still above Stiles. Leaning in, Stiles scraped his cheek against the coarse grain of Blue’s stubble, relishing the pleased rumble it won him. “A second,” Blue said softly. “A year. Time’s no matter to me.”

“Okay.” Stiles grasped Blue’s nape. “Okay.”

A long moment quietly crept by before Blue asked, “Come to work with me, yeah?”

“Work?” Stiles reared back. “You have a job?”

“What is it you think I do while you’re away?” Blue straightened and lifted a thin black t-shirt from the curved iron rail at the foot of the bed. “This place isn’t mine for free.” 

“Let me guess.” Stiles swung his legs down, ignoring the cold beneath his toes and the desire to strip off the sweater Blue shrugged on. “You deliver candy grams. Wait. What am I saying? The world’s gone stupid, sending emails when peanut butter cups are the obvious way to go.” Snapping his fingers, he said, “I’ve got it. You’re a candy striper?”

A crescent curve of hair fell over Blue’s arched eyebrow. “You’ve got candy on your mind? Or is it my--”

“ _Hungry_ ,” Stiles blurted. “I’m hungry. For _food_. Not--Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m lying. Just...can we grab something to eat before your shift starts? And, I don’t know, maybe some real pants from my room?”

“Wear a pair of mine,” Blue offered, lowering to his haunches and retrieving a small trunk from beneath the bed. Cracking the lid open, he rummaged through the contents and tossed a pair of soft, slim black pants onto Stiles’ lap. “They’ll be maybe a little long.”

“Thanks--Holy shit!” Stiles glanced up from the pants and gaped at Blue’s unrepentant grin. “The zipper goes all the way--”

Blue nodded. “I’ll wear them for you,” he said, “when you’ve chased away your doubts.”

Fingering the zipper’s long, curved line, Stiles hissed, “That’s cheating.”

“That’s incentive, Red,” Blue corrected, dropping a pair of jeans on the bed. He tipped up Stiles’ chin with a fingertip and held Stiles’ eyes, waiting for his gaze to regain its focus. “You’ve not yet seen me play dirty.” Brushing his thumb over Stiles’ lower lip, he nodded at the jeans. “Get dressed. Then we’ll see to that food you wanted.”


	7. Interlude: Too Busy Being His (To Fall For Somebody New)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude between Derek and Blue that takes place a few weeks after the events of When There's Blood on Your Tongue.

Blue’s gaze dropped to Derek’s hands on the table: white as an early evening sky smothered by clouds, his knuckles pressed minute fractures into the wood. Pointed claws pricked his palms. Blue stepped around the table and stopped behind Derek, the scent of woodsmoke and leather thick in the scant space between them. “It’s my blood you want here,” he said, the pad of his index finger riding the straining tendon from Derek’s middle finger to his wrist. “Dripping from your hands.” He leaned closer. “Even if you managed it, it’d win you no favors with Red.”

“Maybe,” Derek hedged, lifting his head. “Maybe I can’t touch you.” Twin rings of red reflected back at him from the mirror on the opposite wall until his focus shifted, found dark as midnight eyes watching him. Them. “I don’t have to hurt you to make you leave.”

“You’ll not want to play this game with me, Hale.” Quietly spoken, the words stirred the fine hairs on Derek’s neck. “There’s only the one thing I want,” Blue murmured. “One thing that’s interchangeable with the air I breathe. And he’s not leverage you’ll use to bring me to heel.”

“So sure of yourself.” Derek turned. He braced a hip against the table and crossed his arms, ignoring the quiver of sensation gripping his biceps where the muscle had grazed Blue’s chest. The distance separating them widened, but those few inches didn’t dampen Blue’s heat, feverish and stoking Derek’s own. He forced his jaw to relax. “I can help with that.”

Blue’s smile shaped slowly. “Can you, now?”

Grinding his teeth, Derek jerked his chin down. “The pleasure will be all mine.”

“The night we met, Red said something similar.” Blue’s gaze tracked over Derek’s shoulder and returned to his face seconds later, softened by memory. “He was wrong too.”

Derek drew in a deep breath infused with the sharp bite of ginger. It settled like a lingering kiss on his tongue. It felt like teeth, raking his lower lip. “Stay away from him, Brannan.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Were that an option,” Blue replied, “do you think I’d be here now?”

Irritation flared like an insistent itch between Derek’s shoulder blades. Shrugging, he snapped, “What the fuck are you doing here, then?”

“I’m offering a deal.” Blue stepped forward. “There’s only one decision I’ll abide, and it’s his. Whether he wants me, you.” He lowered his head. “Both of us.”

His stomach tight, Derek rasped, “I’d never—”

“There’s a word you’ll regret using,” Blue said, “when you’re in bed, imagining how it could be between us three.”

Derek shoved away from the table and pushed, knowing that Blue had let him. He stalked to the window and watched fat drops of rain slide down the pane. “I’m not hearing a deal.”

Blue leaned against the table, both hands lightly gripping the ledge. “The terms are simple: you and I, we agree to give him time to know his mind. To decide what it is he needs. Who it is he’s unwilling to live without. I’ll not interfere when he’s with you, and you’ll do the same by me.”

“Why?” Derek glared at Blue’s reflection in the glass. “Why would I agree to—”

“Because you need to know,” Blue said, “and so do I.” He stood, moved to the table’s end several feet away. “And because to deny him his choice would breed resentment of a kind that’d bury so deep, you’d never see it dug out. What chance would you stand with him then?”

Derek’s silence followed Blue down the hall. It was broken by the door, definitively closing.


	8. As We Lie in the Light, PT 1

Stiles opened Blue’s door and palmed the key, his grip on it tight, scraping the teeth across his skin. He lowered his shoulder, let the dozen books, give or take the three he may or may not have forgotten, crammed in his backpack pull the bag down to the floor. “Blue?”

Afternoon light slanted through the windows, finding the empty, hollow spaces in the apartment. And they were everywhere: in the folds of Blue’s sweater, slung over the arm of Stiles’ favorite leather chair; in the cracks in the floorboards, uncovered because Stiles had flooded the tub and soaked the rug with soapy water; under the bed, where Blue’s trunk and duffel were shoved against the wall but still visible. Always visible.

The silence held, undisturbed by Stiles’ sigh.

Shrugging off his flannel, he dropped it beside his left shoe, discarded a step behind the right, and crawled up the bed. He rubbed his cheek on Blue’s pillow, inhaled. He held his breath until he couldn’t taste ginger on his tongue, until the warm scent of dark roast coffee turned cold. Stretched out on his stomach, his arms beneath the pillow, he kicked at the thick knit blankets at the foot of the bed, pushing his feet beneath their heavy weight.

He flexed his fingers, crumpling cotton into the creases etched in his palm. He wanted Blue’s hair tangled around the tips, caught under his nails like dried black ink. He wanted Blue’s heartbeat beneath his ear, and to realize a second or hour later that his own was its echo. He wanted endless midnight above him, Blue’s eyes laying him bare.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and rolled his hips, slowly, into the mattress. 

Letting go of the pillowcase, he skimmed the sheet with fingertips that fumbled to free the button on his jeans. His knuckles grazed the bed and his wrist pushed at the zipper, working it lower until his fingers curled around his dick. Tightened. 

He bit the pillow, muffling a moan.

Blue’s scent was there, thick and sharp where his sweat had seeped into the cloth. Stiles focused on it, closing his eyes. He canted his hips up and thrust down, pushing through the firm ring his fingers made. He eased back, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, and held still. The sheet was cool against the head of his cock. Too soft. A minute passed, marked by ragged pants breaking against the quiet. 

He rocked forward, finally, holding Blue’s name on the tip of his tongue.

Each push and pull drawn out, he set a deliberate pace, and turned his head on the pillow. Stiles opened his eyes, focusing on the closed door. A low whine slipped from his throat, into the room. Trying to twist his wrist, trapped between his stomach and the bed, he squeezed instead, and shook. Rhythm quickening, tense muscles quivered with every blunt thrust. He hooked his finger on the hem of his shirt, jerking it down as he came, gasping into the pillow. 

Long minutes later, propped up on his side and breathing through an open mouth, he waited for his pulse to settle before flopping to his back. Peeling up the shirt stuck to his stomach, he lifted his head, glanced down at the wet stain. “Right,” he sighed. “There’s that.” 

He wiped his thumb pad on the material over his chest, adding to the mess, and stared up at the ceiling’s exposed white beams. The paint was flaking; the wood splintering. And loneliness clawed at his empty stomach. Stiles dropped his gaze, lowering his lashes until darkness blotted out all the places Blue should be.


	9. As We Lie in the Light, PT 2

Snuffling, Stiles shifted towards the warmth laid out alongside him on the bed. His fingers twitched and found skin: firm and smooth, stretched over a familiar slope. He pushed his palm up, onto Blue’s stomach. Callused fingers laced with his, Blue’s thumb stroking over the back of his hand. Stiles smiled drowsily. “Mmm.”

“Red.” A soft exhalation stirred the sweat-damp hair curled over Stiles’ forehead. “Why’d you not wait for me?”

“Huh?” Stiles mumbled and curled closer, tucking his knee between Blue’s legs. Pinning his bunched-up shirt between his stomach and Blue’s hip. “Oh.” His eyes clenched shut, he attempted a shrug. “Couldn’t. Wanted you, an’ you--” His grip tightened, nails scraping. “I _knocked_ first.”

Blue grazed light fingertips up Stiles’ back, fisted his shirt. Pulled. “And this.” He slid their joined hands towards Stiles’ torso, cut a finger through the center of the dried and darkened stain. “It’s meant to be my punishment?” 

Stiles’ eyes shot open and skittered up; there were the midnight skies he craved, shrouded by thick black lashes curved like a crescent moon. 

Blue grinned, that subtle lift at the left corner that made Stiles’ pulse beat out of rhythm. “Or my reward?”

Closing his mouth, Stiles swallowed thickly. “R-reward?”

“I’ve only ever had to see your fingers at work,” Blue said, and slipped his own loose from Stiles’ grip. “To get hard.” He pulled his hand back, slowly, brushing knuckle against knuckle until just the tips touched. A slight push: a steeple standing strong over the steady rise and fall of his chest. “Give me something to think of tonight, Red. Something that’ll make me orgasm all the quicker and harder for imagining it.”

Heat burst in Stiles’ cheeks, shading sleep-pale skin crimson. “You--” Stiles licked his lips. He refused to duck his head, knew what message he relayed with each deceptively lazy blink, each hitched breath: that there had been nights, an incalculable number of hours, he spent imagining Blue getting himself off. And of being there, sprawled out in the armchair, the leather soft and supple under his hand and scored with lines he wasn’t aware of digging as he watched Blue’s long-fingered, callused hand move along the thick length of his cock, picking up speed along with their breathing, harsh and loud as a shout in the quiet room. The details were never the same, but the fantasy ended, always, with Stiles sweat-sheened and panting, his boxers a sticky mess. “You want details?”

“Yes.” The word was a rasp of sound, brushed against Stiles’ forehead. “Every. Last. One.” 

“Yeah. I mean, sure,” Stiles said after a charged pause. “I can do that. But--” He looked up: the paint was still flaking, the wood still splintering. Damage that could be fixed with a trip to the hardware store, a few days of labor. Paint in Blue’s hair, smattered like freckles across his cheekbones. Stiles took a breath. “Okay, so.” His heart beat quickened, Blue’s pacing it. The thought was there, growing in his chest. Stuck in his throat. Instead he spit out, “I fucking _hate_ your duffle bag.” The steeple shook; Stiles pushed his fingers down and held on, his knuckles white. “And that trunk. It’s old as balls, you know that, right? And who even uses a _trunk_ anymore?”

“Not me.” Blue’s thumb stroked, soothed the tension clenching Stiles’ hand. “For three months. I’ve not been counting, but I think there might be a few extra days in there.”

“Two weeks. Almost.” Stiles scrunched his nose. “They’re, like, the first thing I see when I come in here.”

“Alright.”

“Al--What?” Stiles shifted, tilting his head back on Blue’s arm. “Are we having the same conversation, or?”

“Alright,” Blue repeated. “They’ll not be the first things you see again.”

Stiles scraped his nose down Blue’s biceps, slid it along his collarbone. Nipped the skin there instead of grinning like he wanted to. “Don’t shove them into a closet on my account.”

“Red.” Laughter in Blue’s voice. “Details. I’d have them, now.”

Stiles freed a sly smile from the curve of Blue’s shoulder. “One condition.”

Absently connecting the moles on Stiles’ back through the shirt, Blue murmured, “Name it.”

“I want video,” Stiles said, his cock twitching at the thought. The possibility of repeated viewings. “Of later.”

“Done.”


	10. I Wanna Taste (The Way That You Bleed)

Stiles warily watched as three men fanned out from the mouth of the alley: one heading to his right, another to Blue’s left.

“This is a terrible idea,” he told the man directly approaching them, this one taller than the others and broad-shouldered. “Scout’s honor, we won’t think less of you if you decide to tuck tail and run.”

“We’re not after tail.” The ringleader lowered eyes like burnt grass to the point of the V-neck collar on Stiles’ borrowed shirt. Stiles choked back a laugh, because it was a classic villainous cliche, one made worse by the deliberate flick of the man’s tongue over his lips, like he anticipated just how good the light sheen of sweat on Stiles’ collarbones tasted. A ridiculous attempt at a leer made the deep bow of his mouth quiver before Ring added, “But I’d never say no to a piece like you.”

“See, I thought I knew what was going on here, but--” Stiles looked over at Blue. “Does he want us to take him seriously or not? I can’t tell.”

His expression sharpening, pinching the bridge between thick eyebrows, Ring sneered. “Let’s see how seriously you take having my c--”

“Whoa!” Stiles raised both hands to show open, empty palms. Shifting his weight, he grazed Blue’s biceps, and feeling the tension coiled in that muscle was like an electric shock, lighting up Stiles’ nerves. After inhaling, a breath he immediately regretted, laced as it was with the bitter bite of days old coffee grinds and rotted fruit, Stiles briefly pressed closer. “I’m not easy, you know,” he said, canting his head to crack bone. “And my type’s standing next to me, so, like, do I even need to point out how none of you come clos--”

“Hey, kid. Shut the fuck up,” Blondie snapped, suddenly closer than Stiles recalled him being. He reached around his back, pulled a short knife he used to jab in Blue’s direction. The blade glinted dully under the pale light shed by the flickering bulb suspended in a rusted-wire cage above the cafe’s back door. “In, now. Bring out whatever’s in the safe,” Blondie demanded. “You’ve got stuff on you; we’ll take that too.”

Blue smiled, if the feral curl that exposed one sharp canine could be given such a benign label. “You’ve figured me wrong: I don’t obey boys like you.”

Stiles risked turning his head to meet Blue’s midnight eyes. Violence stirred there, bright as a star around wide, pitch black pupils. The intention was absolute, and still it pulled at Stiles, his adrenaline rising higher the longer he held Blue’s hungry stare. Looking away--then or ever, Stiles realized--wasn’t an option. If he did, even for a second, some fundamental part of him would break, and the razor-edged pieces left behind would make simple, stupid things--like bending over to tie his shoe--life-threatening. Adjusting his stance to settle into a slight crouch, Stiles nodded.

Slowly, Blue’s smile spread into a no-holds-barred grin.

Stiles blinked and almost missed the blur of Blue’s arm rising. Long fingers had clamped tight as a vice around the throat of the man flanking Blue’s left side before Stiles regained focus. He heard scuffed sneakers scrabble against the cracked asphalt, and sensed more than saw the fine dusting of dirt that rose as Blue shoved, driving the man back. Pinned against the opposite wall, on his toes, Sneakers raked blackened nails down Blue’s wrist, carving jagged trenches through the forest tattooed there. Blue tightened his grip, the pressure forcing a wheezing breath through Sneakers’ clenched lips.

“So,” Stiles said, drawing Ring’s and Blondie’s slightly slack-mouthed attention. “About those second thoughts?”

A retort was forming at the narrowed corners of Ring’s eyes; Stiles didn’t wait to hear it. Yanking Blondie forward by the forearm, he plucked the knife from the man’s loosened grip, flipped the hilt to his palm, and scraped the blade up Blondie’s throat until the tip was tucked under his chin. “Be honest with me,” Stiles coaxed, picking up the thread of conversation. “How strong are they?”

Behind him, Blue’s laugh was soft and low.

Ring grazed his thumbnail up the hilt of a stiletto, popping the blade. “So this is funny to you?”

“Well.” Stiles nodded. “Kinda, yeah.”

If Stiles had never known Blue, the silent snarl biting a vicious dimple into Ring’s flushed cheek might have been impressive. He was pretty sure Ring hadn’t meant it to be cute. Too easy to ignore, which is what Stiles did, lowering his gaze to Ring’s worn work boots as they pivoted to the left and pointed towards him.

“You can thank him for this later,” Stiles said, thrusting his knee up into Blondie’s groin.

Fisting his hand in the back of Blondie’s shirt, Stiles shoved the groaning man forward. Ring swore, tried to swerve to avoid his friend but his foot skidded off the curb and he went down, hard. A glance over his shoulder to gauge the distance to the dumpster, Stiles bent his knees and turned back, offering Ring a Blue-worthy smirk.

As Ring rose, rubbing both hands on black jeans to scatter clinging bits of grit, Sneakers abruptly slid down the wall Blue had him hoisted against. Crumpled in a loose ball, with his eyes closed, he choked out a thready cough. Blondie, recovered enough to become a nuisance, rolled to block Blue’s path. Stiles spared another second to watch as Blue, his head cocked at a contemplative, predatory angle, sank to his haunches.

Stiles really, desperately wanted to see what Blue was going to do, but Ring was there, ramming a shoulder into his sternum. Grunting, Stiles shifted and quickly locked his arm around the tanned neck caught in the crook of his elbow. With two fingers hooked through Ring’s belt loop, Stiles used the man’s momentum to tow them both back and pitched their combined weight to the right.

The scent he’d cataloged before intensified. Ring sucked in a breath and tightly gripped Stiles’ hips; twisting, he tried to wrench back, break the hold. A line of searing pain sliced across Stiles’ torso. “Idiot,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Forgot about the fucking knife.”

Pushing back another step, Stiles slammed Ring’s head into the dumpster’s dented-metal side, and let the man drop, still as a stone, to the ground. He stepped over the body sprawled at his feet, gingerly picking at the dampening cotton already stuck to his skin.

“You all right with scars, Blue, ‘cause--Hey!” Stiles yelped, looking up at Blue, who wasn’t there a second ago, but whose dark eyes were smudged by an emotion Stiles couldn’t pin a name on. “Hey,” he repeated, covering Blue’s hand where it pressed flat over Stiles’ side, staunching the blood seeping from the gash. “I’m good.” Soft as the words were, Stiles knew Blue heard him, but the only response he got was an ease in Blue’s breathing, fanning light and warm and steady across Stiles’ lips. Backing up, following Blue’s lead until his hip bumped into the door handle, Stiles quietly added, “It’s just a scratch.”

The wind picked up wrinkled newspaper pages, a few stray coffee cup lids, shuffling all of it down the alley. Stiles latched onto the rustle, the skidding scrape of plastic on pavement, too aware of the sound of his own heavy breathing. “Blue,” he finally rasped. “Tell me off for forgetting the knife, for getting cut, or, I don’t know, kiss me, finally. Just...do _something_.”

Blue’s voice, when it came, was toneless. “You looked at me.”

His lips suddenly dry, Stiles resisted the urge to lick them. “Yeah. I, ah, do that a lot?”

“Did you think me incapable of--”

“No idea where you’re going with that, but let’s say there’s something you’re incapable of--” Cutting himself off, Stiles shook his head. “Nope. I have zero clue what it would be. You can do anything. Kiss me.”

The same long fingers that had crushed bruises into a man’s throat sifted through Stiles’ hair as Blue’s hand slid back to cradle Stiles’ head. Blue leaned in, his thigh settling between Stiles’ legs. “Where?”

Groaning, Stiles’ senses narrowed to Blue’s touch, the idle circles his fingertips were drawing; to the ginger he could practically taste on his tongue; to the unholy light in those midnight eyes he was far too fucking fond of. “M-mouth,” Stiles managed, hardly recognizing his own voice. “First.”

Blue dipped his head, turning his face so the corner of his lips just met the trailing edge of Stiles’.

His breath locked in his chest, Stiles closed his eyes and waited, whimpering low in his throat when Blue didn’t move to take his mouth.

“Blue?” Stiles frowned and popped an eye open to see Blue’s smug smile, up close and personal. “You’re screwing with me? Now? Are you fu--”

“You’ve penance to pay,” Blue told him. “For forgetting the knife.”

Stiles followed when Blue eased back, ignoring the cold that came with the deepening night. “Isn’t penance supposed to be voluntary? I distinctly remember doing nothing like that.”

“The kiss was yours to take.” Blue’s gaze was steady, empty. “Had you wanted it badly enough.”

“Wanting it-- _you_ \--badly isn’t the problem,” Stiles admitted, curling his fingers into fists. “But wanting you too much? That is, hugely. I mean, sometimes, it’s like I can’t even breathe.”

Blue stepped forward, not quite close enough to touch. “And you wonder, when it happens, if all that need you feel soon won’t fit beneath your skin, yeah?”

“Yes, that.” Glancing down at his shoe, Stiles poked at the blade he’d forgotten. Again. “Let’s be real, fighting a knife-wielding jackass is less terrifying.”

Closing the distance between them, Blue softly said, “I’ve told you before that I’ve no problem waiting.” With a knuckle under Stiles’ chin, Blue swiped his thumb over Stiles’ jaw and urged his head up. “Something to know about me, Red. Delayed gratification’s a specialty of mine.”

His eyes squeezed shut, Stiles tried to picture anything but Blue, stretched out and sweat-drenched, every muscle straining. Close to pleading. Whether that scenario was better or worse than imagining himself in the same position was a toss up.

“Not helping,” Stiles bit out.

“You’ve no need of help.” Blue rubbed off the blood he’d smeared on Stiles’ face. “You could ask the one on the ground for confirmation, if my word won’t do.”

“Speaking of bodies on the ground.” Leaning around Blue, Stiles asked, “I figured Blondie was a goner, but when did you knock Sneakers out?”

Blue’s eyebrows rose. “I’m sure you meant for that last bit to make sense, only I’ve no idea--”

“Sneakers,” Stiles interrupted, pointing across the alley. “He was curled in a ball, trying to cough up a lung the last time I checked.”

Turning a sharper version of his earlier grin on Stiles, Blue shrugged. “You’ll find there’s a lot I can do to a man in a matter of seconds.”

“That’s--I-- _shit_ ,” Stiles gasped, stumbling off the curb to follow Blue as he walked down the alley. “Hey! What I’d say about not helping!”


	11. Cause If You Don’t Believe (It Can Never Do You Harm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may or may not be a follow-up chapter, depending.
> 
> I listened to a few songs while writing this; they'll eventually show up on my tumblr. The one I took the title from, Nothing but Thieves' "Graveyard Whistling," can already be found there.

Blue set two coffee cups down on the table and swung his chair around, straddling it like he might a bike, or a boy, if the boy let him. He draped both arms over the curved backrest, laid his forearms down, one over the other, on the battered marble tabletop. “You’ve that look again.”

Stiles dropped his chin and reached for the cup marked with a neat S in permanent, glittering silver on the cardboard sleeve. He scraped his thumbnail across the letter. “What look?”

“I’ll not be gone long,” Blue said. “I’ve told you.”

He had, and Stiles had heard him each time, even wanted to believe him.

The tapping pen in Stiles’ right hand disappeared, tossed aside, replaced by Blue’s fingers. Steady and firm, scars like lines on a map stretching across three knuckles.

“Eyes on me, Red."

Stiles released the breath he’d been holding before it got stale, got stuck in his throat, and lifted his head.

  “It’s just a bit of unfinished business,” Blue said quietly. “Won’t take me more than a couple days to sort out.” 

Blue’s calm voice, the familiar refrain, ate at Stiles. For a week he had tried and tried harder to hide the doubt and restless fear living like an itch beneath his skin. He’d touched Blue, his palm on the back of Blue’s neck, hoping to smother his insecurity. Sarcasm always hit the mark, won him Blue’s sly smile, so he’d turned it up, sure the heat of Blue’s stare would burn through the worry.

All he managed to do, somehow, was make it worse.

“Do you know how often a couple is interchanged with a few?” Stiles only just remembered to let go of the full cup before gesturing with an open hand. “It’s like people forget how to count. I mean, sure, two and three are--”

“I’ve got the math down, Red, but when I get back,” Blue murmured, head tilted, his midnight eyes focused on Stiles’ throat, “if you’ve a lesson in mind that sets my tongue to those moles of yours--”

“What, like they’re abacus beads?”

“Or those on a pace count cord.” Blue leaned forward. The collar of his shirt towed down and to the side, framing the scrolled edge of the tattoo on his collarbones. “If those are the tools you’ll be using, I’ll gladly accept being tutored.”

“Okay, sounds good, _really_ good, but what’s a pace count cord?”

Blue’s finger circled his cup’s lid, once, twice. Slow, like Stiles wasn’t already mesmerized. “You want me with you in the dark, when you’re far from home and turned around.”

Stiles shook his head. “You didn’t even have to reach for that innuendo, and I still don’t know what a pace-whatever is.”

White teeth flashed brighter than the spotlights turned towards the art strung up on wires across the brick walls. “That’ll be my lesson for you, then, one of these days.”

“This lesson.” Stiles swallowed, shifting on his chair. “It’s gonna involve actual beads?”

Blue’s grin sharpened. “I do like that quick mind of yours, Red. And the direction it tends towards.” Under the table, firm fingers brushed Stiles’ knee, up his thigh. “We’ll use those too, later.”

“H-how much later?” Stiles slouched lower, pushing into Blue’s withdrawing hand. 

Blue looked at Stiles, letting a long moment pass. He reached for his coffee, thick black lashes dropping, rising like a shrug. “That’s only ever depended on you.” 

Gripping his cup tighter, buckling one side, Stiles wasn’t sure what to say. His excuses were tired, and rang hollow even in his own ears. Blue was leaving within the hour; it wasn’t the time for _yes_ , for _please_ , _god_ , for scraping his chair back and grabbing Blue’s hand on his way to the door.

“If I’m to be more than a couple days, you’ll know.”

“I will?” Stiles asked. “How?”

“I’ll call.” Blue’s brow arched, seeing Stiles deflate. “You were hoping for something else. Telepathy, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Stiles echoed. 

“Red, if I was telepathic, the binding between us would be inviolable.”

Maybe it was the word, inviolable, because the man who spoke it like an oath never flinched. Maybe it was Blue’s thumb rubbing up and down the paper cup’s seam that made Stiles’ heartbeat kick and race. “Give me a minute,” he said and licked his lips, “to decide if I’d object to any of that. While I figure it out, explain. The last part.”

Blue didn’t blink, his gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve seen me look at your clever hands, your smart mouth, and you’ve convinced yourself that’s all I want. Strange, that, because I know you don’t make a habit of lying to yourself. Just like I know you don’t need an explanation, you want one. You want to hear me say I’m not a nice guy, that I don’t give a fuck about what’s right or fair. Because you’ve a good idea of what I’m capable of knocking around in your head, and still you tucked the key to my place deep in your pocket. I’ve had blood on my hands, you’ve seen some of it, but that hasn’t stopped you from tucking yourself in my bed. 

So tell me this, Red. If I could read your mind, know without a doubt what I had to do to earn you for good, do you think I’d hesitate? Would you refuse me, once you realized?”

It might have startled him, how quickly the answer came, but he'd seen them that first night in the park, the thick shadows Blue wore like skin. He'd been the one to step forward, having never been afraid of the dark, and ever since there was the rasp of Blue's laugh like a struck match. "No,” Stiles said. “Not even for a second.”

Blue hummed, a deep, pleased rumble of sound that raised a legion of goosebumps up the length of Stiles' arms, and tipped his chair forward. Wood struck marble with a dull thud, one pinned to the other by Blue’s chest. Around Stiles’ smile, where his lips has pulled back and bared teeth, Blue drew a parenthesis with the tip of his finger. He hummed again and held Stiles’ chin, smoothing his thumb along the bone. "You'll miss me, yeah?"

"Whoever told you there are no stupid questions lied," Stiles said in a voice gone rough from a thousand things left unsaid. Unasked for. "Fuck. Yes. I'll miss you."

Blue's fingers tightened on Stiles’ chin, pressure flirting with pain. "Do you need to hear it?"

Stiles fought to keep his eyes open, fought a soft moan that didn't give a fuck about limited time or a crowded coffee shop. "N-no."

"But you'd like to?" Blue asked and when Stiles kept quiet, squeezed tighter. "You've a problem with getting what you want?"

"You're not a nice guy," Stiles said, edging closer to reckless, his nerves a tangle of live wires. "Shouldn't you have a problem _giving_ me what I want?"

"Even the monsters among us have their exceptions." Blue scraped a wide swath down the center of Stiles’ bottom lip with his thumbnail, his darkened gaze falling, watching. "You're mine."

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Stiles whispered and nipped Blue’s thumb. “Wear your warning label on the outside.”

“I’ll miss you, Red.”

“Fuck you.”

“Every day.”

“Shut up.”

“You’d have me do what with my mouth, then?”

Stiles groaned, halfway out of his seat and stretching over the table. “I want you to kiss me. Not now, when you get back. I want your tongue, teeth, breath, your hair in my fist. Your hands wherever the fuck you want to put them. And since it’ll be our first,” Stiles rasped, “I want it to last, possibly forever. At least a few hours. Is that enough wanting for you?”

“When you’re insatiable for me, ask again. When you begin to take, I might even answer.” Blue’s lips brushed Stiles’ cheek, paused at his ear. “You’ll have your kiss, soon as I get back.”

“I’ll c-clear my schedule,” Stiles said and shivered, falling back onto his seat. His chin throbbed, his pulse out of sync without Blue’s touch there to set its rhythm. The deep breath he took was surprisingly steady. “If you have to go, whatever, but I will kill you if you get yourself killed.”

“And don’t I believe you’d do just that.” Blue glanced up at the large wall clock, with its loud second hand, its unrelenting ticking. “Now or never,” he said and stood, spinning his chair around.

Stiles looked up when Blue stepped around the table, stopped beside him. “Seriously, come back.”

Blue’s lashes fell, a dark shutter over a bright spark. He nodded once. “Never doubt it. Take care of yourself, Red.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles said quietly, but Blue wasn’t there.


	12. What I Came Back For (Had To See Your Face Once More)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This follows on the events in the last chapter.

It had been a long set of days, with so much rain running down the windshield to catch on the lip of the wiper like blood from a broken nose. Blue had kept to side streets, where church spires bent towards the trees they were taken from, and homes crouched down among the ripped out, rusting organs of abandoned semis. A time or two he’d had to move onto the blind roads that collected tolls in minutes and hours, a currency he’d never minded giving over.

But now, now he was fucking done with sleeping on a bench seat. Done with the thin warmth of his coat and the brief calls to Stiles. Blue would have his bed, his bathtub, Stiles’ skin lit like a lucifer match against his.

With the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign in the rearview, Blue lifted his phone off the dash.

“Where are you?”

“Hello, Red.”

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Stiles said, and beneath his voice, Blue caught the muted music of hundreds of pages shuffling to a close. “No small talk. None. You’re going to tell me you’re done with whatever bullshit business you left for, and then you’re going to give me your ETA. It better be within twenty minutes. Got it?”

“And if I don’t,” Blue said, as the truck accelerated and the exhaust cut in, impatient, “would you see me become a supplicant for your mercy? Should I go down on my knees?”

Stiles exhaled. Along the sidewalk, leaves on the sweetgum trees shook. “Kinks later, kiss first.”

“Get to mine, Red, and you can have both.”

Blue tossed the phone, suddenly silent, on the seat and parked at the curb alongside his building. In his absence the landlord had replaced grass with crushed stone and had the back door painted a similar shade of solitary confinement. The hardware had been changed, silver instead of brass; for all that the man wanted Blue out and gone, the deadbolt was the same. He took the stairs up to his place two at a time and left his own door open.

A familiar plaid was slung over the arm of the wingback, and kicked up against the wall beneath the window, Blue found a pair of still-tied sneakers. The damp towel on the lip of the tub smelled sweet and sharp, same as the creased sheets and thrown-back blankets on Blue’s side of the bed. On the closed trunk, Blue’s closet, an unsealed package of Dutch chocolate cookies propped up a set of ballpoint pens, an uncapped highlighter draining back into the barrel.

Moving the detritus of Stiles’ study habits to the floor, Blue discarded his clothes, each piece scented with sweat and cold coffee, stained by dried blood splatter passed off as paint, and pulled fresh variations from the trunk. His reason for returning all but fell into the room as he pulled on a shirt.

“Fuck...running,” Stiles panted. “Who...made that...a thing?”

“What’s happened to the Jeep--”

“More like my keys,” Stiles moved closer, “wherever they are.” His expression was tight, drawn in angles of accusation. “A few days. That’s what you said.”

Blue hooked Stiles’ hand, hauled him close. “Unforeseen resistance to my plans.”

He studied Blue’s face, ducked his head for a look at his throat. “In the shape of fists and a knife. Any bullet holes I should know about? Missing toes?”

“You can feel my heart beating, here,” Blue pressed Stiles’ fingers to his chest, “and it’s not enough? You need me to be free of a few cat scratches as well?”

Stiles swiped a thumb beneath the line of sutures Blue had hastily managed with an eye on the vanity mirror, the first aid kit Stiles had given him dumped out across the seat. “That’s, like, nine or ten stitches. How big was the cat?”

“Prehistoric.”

A light touch to the bruise on his jaw. “You put it down?”

He nodded, and his boy sighed, holding on tighter.

“I hated it.” Stiles made a confessional out of the arch of Blue’s neck and shoulder, his breath hot in that contained space, pained and hushed. “I broke five plates, three coffee cups, a mirror, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t keep myself together. Don’t leave. Don’t fucking do it again.”

“Ask me.”

Stiles hesitated.“Did you miss me?”

“I was devoured whole by it,” Blue dropped his mouth to Stiles’ ear, “but that’s not the question I’m after. Try again.”

“With what?” Stiles’ eyes were wide but steady. “Will you stay? Do you love me? Will you finally fucking kiss me?” He huffed, “Did any of that cover it, or--”

A firm tug on Stiles’ hair tipped his head back. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Stiles slowly repeated, and even his hands had stilled, tucked in the cyclone of fabric at the small of Blue’s back. “To which--”

“One or all,” Blue bit the words into Stiles’ jaw, “does it matter?”

“Kind of? It kind of matters a--”

“Red.”

“Yeah?”

Blue tightened the hand on Stiles’ nape. He leaned forward and it was a question, the way he held there, with Stiles’ breath like a ghost straining towards skin, unutterably warm against Blue’s mouth. Stiles didn’t spare another second but closed his eyes, quietly sinking into a kiss that consumed like an eclipse. 

“ _Fuck_.” Whose tongue tasted the word, pressed it into the other’s mouth, Blue would have to settle later. He hummed his content, heard the low note returned, sustained, and knew he’d not forget the sound, that it would echo through his sleep that night, fuel for the heat of his dreams.

Stiles’ hands trembled on Blue’s hips, starved for the feel of him, moved by the kind of depthless hunger Blue knew to be embedded in his every muscle, in the thick throb of his pulse. They were of a kind, Blue had never been more certain of it.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed, and licked his lips. “That...you...”

Blue smiled, riding his thumb over the dark spread of color across Stiles’ cheekbone. “You’ve a complete sentence in mind?”

“Just--” Stiles did it again, set his tongue to his lips, and so Blue took another kiss and lingered. When he leaned back, Stiles’ eyes were unfocused, his grin a lazy curve. “We need to do that, like, all the time. I propose never stopping. Ever.”

“You’ll have what you want from me,” Blue said, “whenever you like.”

“What I want.” Stiles took a step back, and another, towards the bed. He bent down, providing Blue with a fine view of his ass, and came up with the package of cookies in hand. Sliding one from the sleeve, he took a bite, sucked a finger into his mouth for the bits of sugar left on his skin. He pointed the remains of the cookie at Blue and said, “Let’s start with that yes.”


End file.
